Four Transcendental Grandmothers

I had just got my hands on the new ‘Sergeant Pepper’ album. The four girls that lived above my pad were notified by jungle drums. Soon we were six, Roger with his blonde Mexican mustache and shoulder length hair came over. We sat about a portable record player, passing the album cover around and swaying to the music filling the room with prayerful smoke. By and by, Roger took Diane to her room. Michelle led me behind the curtained alcove, Isobel and Maggie got it on together. When we had done with the music we had long disbanded the lonely-hearts club band. Later, Roger died from the hole he had dug in the London drug scene. My mate. One grandmother lived to see Lennon shot. One lived on long enough to hear of Harrisons stabbing. Michelle. the last grandmother she who broken heartedly adored Paul, died peacefully listening to her signature tune. I know this because the Maharishi Yogi came to me in a dream. He was seated on top of a multicolored Rolls Royce surrounded by happy, nubile grandmothers. None of them seemed old, the girls were playing with lots of children, and looked just as cool as ever. I could have called this poem, Love, but we all know: Love Is All You Need.